Grandma

The house was very simple. There have been drawings in kindergarten classrooms all over the world of this little house. Its base was a square. Its roof was a triangle. Its face consisted of a door in the middle book
ended by two windows. Inside were six humble rooms. Grandma had tried her hand at decorating them but the stuff of life cluttered every room hiding any attempt at keeping an orderly household. The rooms were as unruly as the family that occupied them. This was the house my grandparents built.

Trains are built like my grandparent’s house. The engine included the single room for both living and dining. Of course, the two are so intermingled, the living and the dining, this suited the house perfectly. The only separation of the two areas was the path that led straight through to the kitchen. This path, if followed directly would lead out to the back patio. This backyard spot would more aptly be described as the storage slash dog run (when there was a dog). However, if one was to stop in the kitchen they would find themselves in the first car of the train. This would be the standing room only car. Grandma could move smoothly as director of the kitchen sending out anyone who tried to help with the excuse that there was just no room. Really, she just enjoyed being the source of nourishment for her family. Her meal concoctions nourished our bodies and her unconditional love nourished our souls. Next, would be the bathroom and scary as hell basement car. It was best to make your visits to either quick. Earwigs had staked a claim on the tub and mice on the basement. I once dared to imagine the clash that would take place had the two engaged in a border dispute and decided that I would not be able to return if I let my mind wander there again. The second car was my grandparent’s bedroom. You might think this was the off limit car. Nope, after all there was no option to get to car number three without passing through. Besides, grandma didn’t mind a little company when bompo (that’s grandpa) worked the graveyard shift at the steel mill. Car three was the room that my sister and I lived in unless a great grandparent or other family member was taking a ride on the train. The caboose was the off limits teenage aunt car. Of course my sister and I received invitations from her earrings and makeup that we could not resist accepting. If caught there was no escape because the caboose had no door other than the one leading back through every other room in the house. The house was definitely a train happily stranded.

Watching our family’s comings and goings a person would be led to believe that a number of people resided in the little house. A host of family members arrived and departed at all hours of the day and night; grandma and bompo, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, mom, dad and my
sisters and I not to mention the host of distant relatives and friends. In reality my grandma and bompo were the only permanent residents. The rest of us drifted in and out, staying for an hour, an afternoon, a day, a night, a week and at times months. The time we spent there was never measured. Grandma never knew a stranger. She greeted us all with open arms and a meal.

It might be said that the driving force behind all the traffic was grandma’s cooking. Thursday nights we gathered for beans, buenellos and green chili. Sundays we convened for roast beef, vegetables, freshly baked bread and green chili. On any given day at lunch we could enjoy everything from fried potatoes and hot dogs (yes, mixed and fried together) to left over skroodles (corkscrew noodles in tomato sauce) and green chili. Breakfast always consisted of “poked” eggs (over easy so you can poke the yoke with your toast), bacon, toast and green chili. Holidays from Thanksgiving to Father’s Day included the traditional holiday foods and of course, green chili. In grandma’s house we covered everything from mashed potatoes to hamburgers in green chili. That is, except for tamales. Those called for ketchup.

Meals were served on Bompo’s schedule; 6:00 A.M., breakfast, 12:00 noon lunch, 5:00 P.M. dinner. However, the beauty was, no one had to be on time. The kitchen was always open. If anyone (even the mailman George) dropped in at 10 AM or 7 PM or even 12 AM Grandma would fling open the door extending her standard greeting, “Hita, what can I fix you to eat?” This really was not a question. Anyone who walked in the door would eat whether they were hungry or not. In fact, if turned down or seconds were denied she would prepare for battle. The stove would be fired up and she would pull out her secret weapon. Tortillas. Not known to be used as successfully in any other documented conflict grandma had a record of 100% victory. She would not back down. Flour would start to fly. Her hands would form a ball with the dough. And then by just pinching and patting and tossing and twirling she would create a perfectly round creamy white tortilla. Once it landed on the griddle the smell wafted through to tickle the nose and tempt the stomach. She would stand above the heat of the pan, flour streaking her face from pushing up her glasses and flip the tortilla bare handed. Her hands had become insensitive to the hot pan that caused the golden color to spread across the cooking tortilla. They were irresistible. The plate of steaming hot tortillas placed in front of the strongest of wills would bring them to their knees. Soon the conquered would be dripping honey and butter right off their chins.

Of course, Grandma’s cooking really was the best. To date no one can beat it. Was it the freshness of the meat, the vegetables and other ingredients? I guarantee it was not. Did she use secret recipes handed down for generations? I know she had an extremely large collection of recipe cards from friends and family, torn from magazines and newspapers and from church functions. I’m sure she would have used them more often if she could have only found them. Watching grandma cook was like watching a magician. She somehow used only her hands to measure ingredients that she pulled from her memory and what was eventually put on the table disappeared in no time. The reason the food was so delicious was because my grandma poured her heart and soul into every dish to feed those she loved.

Grandma was home. All of those words that describe the places we call home describe grandma; comfortable, soothing, warm, peaceful and safe. Her smile and laugh were infectious. She lived and dressed simply except on Sundays. On Sunday, she would dress like she had stepped out of a fashion magazine (if fashion magazines featured plump grandmas). She wore dresses she had sewed herself with store bought matching shoes and handbags to church. Every other day of the week she wore a housecoat; a type of dress, a calf length, often floral, cotton muumuu that buttoned or snapped from the bottom to the top. There were two big pockets on either side of the closure to hold pins, keys, rings or any other small object she happened to place there. She wore glasses. Having cataracts and diabetes made her eyesight questionable even with the glasses, if they could be found. She wore no makeup, except lipstick to church or shopping. Her hair was black and also gray when the dye was fading. She styled it by wearing rollers at night or in the day. The beauty of her youth remained in the glimmer in her eyes and the smile she always hid from the camera.

Grandma was at her best when the entire family gathered for a meal. We were sure to get a good laugh from one of her stories, sometimes true, sometimes half truths and sometimes just plain made up. I know that when my teacher asked my mother if my Apache grandmother would come and speak about Native Americans to our class she was most unhappy. I guess grandma’s claims of getting her streak of meanness from that particular tribe were not founded on any traceable blood line. Now that I am older I am less likely to believe that the tornado ripping the roofs off houses in a path to hers was diverted by kneeling beneath the clothesline and praying while throwing salt over both shoulders. I am more inclined to believe the stories that can be proven by some type of artifact. Like the worn leather sandals she had in the garage.

There were many week nights grandma spent alone since my grandfather had times that he worked either 3 pm to 11 pm or 8 pm to 3 am. When we did spend the night (every Saturday) she never seemed afraid. In fact, she was always peeking out the windows to figure out why the neighbors could be yelling, who the screeching car belonged to or why the scroungy dog next door was barking. The night she came to own those shabby sandals was a night bompo worked one of the late shifts.

Alone that night, Grandma went to bed expecting to get up when bompo returned. She would fix him something to eat after his long stint that night at the mill. Sometime later that night grandma was awakened by a noise. It was a metallic clicking and a kind of “chink.” She said that she carefully
crawled to the end of the bed. Thinking that she left her glasses on the corner of the dresser she reached for them. All the while she heard the “chink, chink, chink.” Of course her glasses were not there. So she slid off the bed onto her knees on the floor. Kneeling on the ground she placed her hands, palms down in front of her. Then she began to crawl. Just like a baby she crawled to the doorway to the hall, “chink, chink, chink.” She crawled, right hand then left knee, left hand then right knee. Down the hall she crawled and stopped to listen, “chink, chink, chink.” Reaching the kitchen she realized the noise was coming from the back door, “chink, chink, chink.” Taking a left into the heart of the kitchen she crawled the few feet to the back door and paused, “chink, chink, chink.” When grandma reached the door she quietly walked her hands up the face of the door, “chink, chink, chink.” Finally, in a standing position she pulled back the curtain. There was a man intent on picking the lock on the back door. Grandma screamed. The man screamed. He dropped what ended up being his sandals and ran through the backyard and disappeared into the alley. We assume that was the path of his retreat since grandma couldn’t see that far without her glasses.

The entire family laughed uncontrollably at the plight of the thief. Grandma’s backyard was covered in goat heads, those painful, nasty stickers you never want to get lodged in your foot. We laughed at the thought of the barefoot thief trying to steal from my grandparents. There was nothing tangible in the little house worth stealing. We laughed at the thought of grandma sitting a successful thief down for a bowl of beans and green chili with tortillas. We laughed at the thought of grandma scaring a thief right out of his shoes.

Grandma’s house or stranded train was not grand. It was not even terribly attractive. It was built by my grandparent’s hands, blessed by the sweat of their hard work and stood as a monument to a family well loved; a family still laughing at grandma’s stories that once filled it from end to end.